Unmitigated Foolishness as Discovered on a Bus
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: After they've said goodbye, from Miss Kenton's POV. One-shot.


"_Only as the bus pulled up did I glance at Miss Kenton and perceived that her eyes had filled with tears._"

Gradually shrinking away from me at precisely the speed of an accelerating bus, is the man who has been to me for many years now the symbol of all that was good and happy in my life. Rather foolishly, he has remained standing in the middle of the road; umbrella still raised to guard his head from the weeping downpour although the hand he raised to bid me goodbye has fallen to his side. He'd hate to hear me call him foolish, but it ought to be said. When I think about it, to the critical eye, my acquaintance with him might just seem to be one protracted spell of unmitigated foolishness.

Although we have spent most of our afternoon talking about it; I hadn't really allowed myself to really remember the days at Darlington Hall until now when I am alone: it would have doubtlessly lead to overt sentimentality on my part, which would have lead to my becoming excessively emotional and Mr Stevens would have excused himself and promptly bolted out of the door within the next ten seconds. As much as I'd probably try to deny it, those days make a striking contrast to my life at the moment. I rather miss the sound of my thoroughly sensible housekeeper's shoes on the stone floor; you can't get much of a reaction out of carpet. I distinctly remember remarking to myself at how imperious I must sound while stalking the servants' corridor, making sure that everyone was in bed, and there own bed at that. Catherine was a piece of cake to control after that riotous lot. Perhaps the _whole _household thought I was completely averse to romance.

But now I'm being ridiculous. Not surprising really, he always said I could be ridiculous. Not one "modicum of sense" were his words I believe. He had a point, I could certainly chatter away in those days. Once I frivolously accused him of objecting to pretty girls being on the staff because he couldn't trust himself; it was worth it just to get a reaction out of him. No; that sounds cruel. We both wound each other up from time to time although it often seemed that I yielded to being wound much more easily than he did. I suppose he'd call it "dignity": not allowing obstinate women to faze him. I'm not as bad now, I've learnt to govern my tongue quite nicely. After all, there isn't much point in bantering with someone who doesn't really know what you're talking about. And that's how it sometimes feels: like Tom doesn't really understand the being he lives with even after all of this time. No, that's not fair to him. He's always very understanding when I say I'm going to sleep in the spare room for the night.

When one really considers it, there isn't really that much difference between the two definite sections that my life seems to have split itself into: both contain copious amounts of ironing, for one thing. And stitching. And my own time has been spent in much the same way; sitting in varying armchairs reading whatever I can lay my hands on that might further my education. When one considers it, one bed curled up in alone is pretty much the same as any other.

But there is still a difference- between the two definitive sections, that is. And if I'm absolutely honest I can probably guess what it is. In fact: I know. It's that look he gave me; that careful admonishment when I accused him of being averse to pretty girls. Except it wasn't just that and I realise it more and more the longer I think about it. There was a certain...wariness to it, but a contented wariness. It was his way, without- I imagine- even knowing he was doing it, of directly refuting what I said, as he would do so readily on any other subject. And I know that I'm right because when he looked at me like that, I actually began to feel beautiful too. I'm not vain- no more vain than any other woman at least- but with that look he managed to make me feel like I should be. And we wouldn't acknowledge it in any other way; we would just keep walking as I chattered away.

And then I realised. He's not the symbol of everything that was good in my life. In that respect Mr Stevens is just the symbol of innumerable laundered sheets, and staff plans, and bottles of silver polish. He's just the symbol of poorly lit ground floor rooms. But he is what makes the room that tiny strange bit lighter. He's not the symbol of the things that made my life worth living, he _is _what made my life worth living. That probably makes little sense to you, but I can assure you it makes perfect sense to me.

And before I know what I'm doing, before the thoughts have completely left my immediate stream of consciousness, I'm standing up and ringing the bell, clutching at the cold of the railing as I swing myself from my seat. The bus comes to a halt all too slowly for my liking and before it's entirely still I have leapt down to the pavement. I don't think I've run in years and it tells in my legs but I don't stop. I can hardly see for the rain, but I still go. It's difficult without many street lights to guide the way, but I manage. My shoes clatter and splash franticly over the rainy streets. All my mind can focus on, all it can pay any attention to is getting back to that bus shelter on the off chance that he's still there.

But he isn't and coming to a desperate, exhausted stop, it occurs to me that I knew he wouldn't be the second I left my seat on the bus. I stand stupidly in the road as he did before, knowing it's foolish but not really caring. It crosses my mind to call his name, but the prospect of it bouncing coldly back shredded by the rain stops me. Instead, I give it a few more seconds and then wearily leave the middle of the road. As I do I feel a whimper climb hopelessly into my face. I submit to it- powerless to stop it- and feel the fresh tug of fresh tears amid the rain on my face.

Of course he left: I told him I'd gone back to Tom- what did I expect? But that was before I knew and if only there was a way for me to let him know that now. Yes, of course I knew I loved him all of those years ago, but I didn't realise how- despite all I've done to try and stop myself- how vehemently I still love him. My footsteps move haltingly with my quiet little sobs to the bus stop bench where I sit down heavily. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him. And from what he said earlier on, he loved me too. I was right in what I said before: unmitigated foolishness to the last. I settle myself amid the drizzle to wait for the next bus home.

**Thank you for reading; please review if you have the time.**


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